


moonlight and birdsong

by graywhatsit



Category: Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff, Other, Piano, Singing, playing with some headcanons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:07:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graywhatsit/pseuds/graywhatsit
Summary: The pianist and his songbird, and their growing relationship, told through a series of moments at a piano.
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 59





	1. Chapter 1

Damien grew up playing piano.

As a young man born into wealth and status, there was a need for him to be a gentleman, and no gentleman would ever be uncultured. Half of his education was outside of the classroom, with tutors of all kinds— public speakers, politicians, language teachers, etiquette instructors.

Pianists.

He hated playing as a child. Not that he hated music— he never did, and he loves it to this day— but the rote memorization, hours of practice, recital after recital. No matter if he was a good student and a quick study— it sapped any enjoyment he could glean from the activity.

The act was just another thing he could do, unimportant but somehow necessary. Though he kept with his lessons and recitals, his only playing outside was relegated to his father’s parties, trotted out like a novelty for a few tunes and then back to being ignored.

And then, one day...

* * *

His friend stops walking beside him, hanging back a few steps, and Damien slows to his own stop. “Is everything alright?”

They’re craning their neck, looking through the doorway to the parlor. Slowly, they turn to a more comfortable position and take a cautious step towards it. “You have a piano.”

“Yes. We’ve always had one.”

They shoot him a bewildered look. “No, but I’ve been by this room repeatedly and never saw it. You aren’t joking with me, are you?”

Damien frowns down at them. “I wouldn’t joke like that—“

“You said that your friend Mark is some big-time actor—“

“And I’m right! He is!” He sways into them a bit, a gentle nudge at their shoulder. “I’ll joke about your handwriting or you climbing shelves like a cat, but I wouldn’t  _ lie  _ to you.”

They huff, even as a small smile begins to play at their lips. “You have a good track record, you’re right. If you’d help me  _ reach _ things, though...”

“I wouldn’t want to spoil your fun.” Damien snickers as they return a much harsher jab, and steps forward into the parlor to avoid any further abuse. The piano lid is still open, his sheet music still on the stand— no wonder they noticed; taking the sheet music in hand, he begins to reorganize it.

As he does, they come close to inspect the piano, first with a keen eye, then gentle fingers over the keys. “I don’t know the first thing about pianos,” they admit, touch light enough to prevent accidental notes, “but it looks like a nice one. Who plays?”

He freezes, a stone of dread sinking in his stomach. “Ah...” He grabs the music folder sitting nearby, weighing his options. He can only imagine the teasing, but he did say he wouldn’t lie, and he’d rather keep that promise. Sighing, he continues, “I do. I had a lesson and I didn’t pick up before you arrived.”

“ _ You? _ ”

Damien hazards a glance; Their eyes are wide and bright, a delighted grin on their face, and it tugs something fiercely in his chest. When they look at him like that, how bad could the teasing be, really?

“You play the piano,” they continue, giddy. “You, my friend, Damien, have piano lessons and play the piano.”

Okay, it could be very bad. “Yes, I might’ve said,” he says, dryly, snapping the folder shut. “If you’re going to make fun, please—“

“No, no, no! No, I’m not making fun, Damien.” They reach out for him, a gentle touch to stop his hands where they are. “No, I just think that’s incredible!”

“You do?” He eyes them, skeptical, but he doesn’t try to pull out of their grasp and set the folder down. “Really?”

Their smile changes, softer but no less genuine. “I might make fun of your status or your strict propriety, but I wouldn’t make fun of your skills.”

It’s an echo from before, and Damien sighs at the fond warmth it brings. “Yes, alright,” he mutters, giving a begrudging smile. “I play, and I have for... well, as long as I’ve been in school. Years.”

They let go of his hands to step back and consider the piano again. “Are you any good? Before you say anything,” they add, “you can practice for years at something and still be terrible. I can’t draw for beans, and not for lack of trying.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” he teases, and it gets a laugh. “My tutors have said nothing but kind words, if that means anything. But I’m not especially fond of playing.”

They look to him with a thoughtful frown. “Hm? Why not? You like music.”

“There’s a difference between performer and audience. Pressure, mostly.” Hesitantly, he sets the folder in the stand. “And, when you work to perfection just to tell others you can, because you must... you don’t have much passion for performing. Even if you would have.”

“I suppose not,” they agree, softly. They watch him a moment longer, something searching and almost sad in their eyes, before they sigh. “Well, I won’t make you perform. You could listen to me plunk away, if you want to be an audience for once.”

He raises an eyebrow, curious. “You play?”

They shrug, settling onto the piano bench. “I have honestly never touched a piano before this very day.” Raising their hands, they lightly rest on the keys, and a few hesitant notes rise into the air. Then, a cacophony of— admittedly still quiet, they must be trying to be conscientious— sound, discordant notes without set reason or rhyme. “I think I’m getting it, Damien!”

Damien can’t help himself, throwing his head back in genuine laughter. “I think so,” he gasps after a few moments, trying to catch his breath. Their self-satisfied, impish grin over their shoulder nearly sets him off again. “You’ll be a master in no time like that, just watch.”

“I’m honored by your faith in my abilities.” They turn back to the keys, fingers slowing and correcting placement, and the next little series sounds a bit more thoughtful, if no better constructed. “I’m not a pianist, I know that, but it must be so difficult to become even proficient. I’m sorry that it robbed your passion on the way.”

“I have passion for other things.” Damien steps a bit closer to the bench to watch their fingers— their form is hideous. Without stopping, they scoot to the side, and he takes the seat with a smile. “A good puzzle. Poker. Helping people.”

His friend snickers. “Eclectic tastes, my good man.”

“I’d call it being well-rounded.” He considers their hands a few more moments, small and unsure on the keys but not stopping. “You didn’t have to play for me.”

They shrug, and a long line of warmth presses against his left leg— their right. “You sounded a bit down about it,” they reply, suddenly brave enough to venture onto the black keys, just as discordant as before. “If embarrassing myself for a moment makes you laugh, or even smile, I say it’s worth it.”

The rush of fondness comes on so powerfully that he reaches for one of their hands, interlacing the fingers to give a soft squeeze. Smiling— and he’s certain he looks like a complete fool, because the sweet ache in his chest only  _ just _ eclipses the pain in his cheeks— he says, “I appreciate that, but you being here makes me happy. That’s all you needed to do, my friend.”

They meet his gaze, just for a second, wide-eyed. They’re close, sitting on the bench, and their eyes are deep and soft; that fond rush stirs a bit, a little edge of something strange but not unpleasant, and he could do... something. It could even be easy to.

Then, they look back down at the keys, clearly struggling with a smile. “Well,” they mutter, quiet and embarrassed. “Forgive me for trying to go above and beyond.”

“I’d never ask you to stop,” he replies, earnestly. Slowly— reluctantly, really, and it seems that they’re a bit reluctant, too— he releases his grip on their hand and gestures to the keyboard. “Would you like some help? I could show you how it’s done.”

“You don’t like performing, though.”

It’s his turn to shrug, lifting his hands to the keys. “I like helping people,” he points out, “and I suppose I can make  _ one  _ audience an exception.”

He plays something from memory, something soft and sweet, fingers following muscle memory to the right keys, the right cadence. The entire time, they stay at his side, one leg pressed against his own, and just  _ listens. _

Damien catches sight of their dreamy smile when he’s done, and swears he’ll play for them any time they want him to.

* * *

They don’t, not especially often— out of respect for his wishes, most likely— but on days when university is rough, when a case isn’t falling together, when life is just too much, they ask.

He makes damn sure to buy a piano for his new home when they graduate.

Once, they ask apropos of nothing. “No, everything’s fine,” they say, when he looks up in concern. “Work is fine, life is fine. I just...” They tilt their head, eyes going a little soft and unfocused as they cut away from him. “I just want to hear you play, is all. Please?”

His own work is put away in a matter of seconds. When they sit at the piano, they scoot in as close as can be without impeding his performance, a warm presence at his side. “Anything in particular?” He asks, gently.

They rarely give him a definite answer— ‘player’s choice’ is the default, but it’s at least worth a try.

This time, with a small smile, they reply, “An old favorite, maybe?”

“An old favorite,” Damien echoes, surprised. After a moment’s consideration, he settles his fingers on the keyboard and begins to play.

It’s a gentle, lyrical piece, but he doesn’t dare to mar it with his own vocals. His skills don’t extend to singing, and they seem to be in a rather delicate mood; an attempt, even in the name of humor, would be a poor idea.

Next to him, his friend sighs, some strange tension easing out in the places they’re touching. After a few measures, they hum. And keep humming.

A quarter through, the humming turns to soft singing.

He’s heard them sing before— at least, muttered snatches of songs under their breath as they work, or overlain with other voices from either a record or live singers. He’s never heard a sour note or anything necessarily bad, just not alone or purposeful.

They sound like bells. Like a little bird with the sweetest morning song. Sweet and warm and clear and  _ unprecedented. _

The surprise nearly shocks him out of playing, but the desire to keep hearing them steadies his hands.

Their voice grows more confident, louder and a little stronger the longer he plays— which  _ makes  _ it purposeful. Did they ask for a chance to practice? To show off? To coerce him into singing along?

For all his reluctance... he  _ almost  _ joins in. Almost.

The song ends before he can break, and he allows the last notes to fade out before turning to them, astonished. “Since  _ when _ —?”

They don’t meet his eyes, an embarrassed little smile on their face. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“ _ That! _ You’re...” Their eyes dart to him and back, quick as a flash, and they wave a hand. “You’re all  _ moony.” _

He could understand moony. He might be a politician, these days, but he’s never been good at hiding his emotions— if half of the fondness, the adoration in his heart is visible on his face, he must look a damn fool. “For good reason,” he defends, and— yes, that’s through a definitely-adoring smile. “You are  _ incredible,  _ my darling _.  _ How have I never noticed before?”

The name slips before Damien can catch himself, and it’s in the second they really dare to meet his gaze, shy and soft and warm, that those two sentences just  _ make sense. _

For years, they’ve been good friends, very close ones, at that— Mark once commented ‘intimate friends’, whatever he meant by that— and it’s very little secret to anyone, including them, that he loves them with his whole heart.

They’re a talented lawyer, a loyal friend, a kind soul. He’s witnessed their passion, their determination, their cleverness. They’re devastatingly witty, with an impish streak a mile wide, and they’re the most gorgeous person he’s ever met.

He always thought they were incredible, and yet, now...

They’re  _ incredible.  _ How has he never noticed before?

That stirring, the edge to the adoration he feels over and over again— he  _ knows _ , now. For years he wrote it off as nothing, a new depth to his affection to reflect their bond, but it’s not that.

They aren’t only one of his most cherished friends— he’s also _in_ _love_ with them.

“How have I...?” Damien trails off, unsure of what to do, what to say. For once, he’s certain of something, but at what cost?

Their pleased little smile fades into seriousness, eyes widening just a fraction. It’s a curious look, a look on the brink of discovery, and it both terrifies and thrills him.

“Damien,” they say, so softly. The shoulder pressed to his moves, and in a second, soft fingers brush against his wrist. “I’m... I’m your—“

“Darling,” he repeats himself, and his hand moves, turns just a bit for better access if they just so choose to take it. “If... if you wanted to be. And it doesn’t have to be— that is,” he stammers, his nerves catching up, “you  _ are _ darling to me. As... as a, ah...”

For a second, their hand shifts, hovering so close to his own that they may as well close the distance. Then, it slowly does so, their small, soft fingers interlacing with his on his leg. “You’re most darling to me, as well. And,” they continue, “if you want to call me yours, then... I— I want you to.“

That sends his stomach swooping and rolling before he can get a grasp on it. It isn’t like that, can’t be, despite how their words sound.

The  _ idea,  _ though...

Damien nods, giving their hand a soft squeeze. “Then, my darling Songbird, I will.” Then, because of some awful impulse, he continues, “And I will tell you that you should sing more often because that was  _ wonderful. _ ”

“See?” They lean in close— so close!— to push into his side, then rock away, standing from the bench. “Moony!”

They do sing more often, though, and point out his moony-ness every time. Not that he can stop it, really— he melts damn near every time they move in close to him, every time he hears their voice.

He gets his own back when he calls them Songbird, but...

It’s still a problem.

* * *

The last time he plays piano for them is the last time they sing for him.

At Mark’s poker night.

Poker has long since come to an end— the newly-elected District Attorney may be a master when sober but they’re a rather daring drunk, and no one else save Mark will play them, anyway. Other games crop up to keep the revelry thriving: something William calls ‘pong’; blackjack; drinking games.

He’s challenged to do a keg stand— which he does, and easily— and then it devolves into other drunken dares.

Abe knocks back some horrid shot from a bottle of liquor Damien can’t read. He does not respond for nearly a minute.

William shoots an inordinate and frankly hopeless amount of bullets trying to get a fly off the wall; it turns out to be a knot in the wood panel.

And then the DA...

The DA, who is drunker than he has ever seen them by far, including university. The DA, tiny and therefore far unequipped to handle such liver abuse. The DA, as sloppy drunk as anything, says, “Dame—  _ you _ should play piano. If Mark has one— hey, Mark?”

Damien’s gut churns at how he appears from seemingly nowhere, just to place a hand on their— opposite— shoulder. “Yes, my dearest?”

That, too. Conniving—

“You have a piano?”

“I  _ do  _ have a piano,” he replies, amiably. Damien only has eyes for that hand, still present and curling tighter, almost possessive. “Are you planning a concert for us, legal eagle?”

They beam up at him— there’s something in his eyes and Damien  _ doesn’t like it _ — before pointing, rather clumsily, in Damien’s direction. “He’s gonna play!”

“I didn’t say yes,” Damien protests, because he  _ didn’t _ , and drunken skill is nearly as bad as sober  _ lack _ of skill.

“It’s a  _ dare _ ,” they reply. “You have to.”

“They have a point.” Mark’s grinning at him, shit-eating and so familiar from their childhood. “It  _ is  _ a dare.”

Damien scowls. He doesn’t have to take it. He can go back to this ‘pong’ game, or play more cards, or  _ anything  _ but the piano.

But.

They’re his one audience and have been for years. Mark is too close for comfort.

“If I have to play,” he starts, determined, “you have to sing. That’s your dare.”

Fear flashes across the DA’s face, just for a moment, but when he doesn’t back down, they lift their chin. “I will! Mark, show us this piano.”

Mark, because of course he does, rather beckons for Benjamin and raises his voice. “Escort our  _ lovely _ guests to the parlor piano. Quickly, now— I’m expecting a concert.”

The DA ducks out from under his arm to follow the butler, thankfully, and Mark hangs back with Damien and the rest as they follow suit.

“They can sing?” He asks, more a curious mutter than a real question.

Damien nods, wearily. “I call them Songbird for a reason. Don’t know about right now, but... yes. You haven’t heard anything like it.”

Mark only hums his response, brow furrowed in thought. It’s a tossup, whether Damien wants to know at all what he’s thinking.

This piano is massive and gorgeous in the corner of the room, a far cry from his upright back home, but the sight of them already on the bench is familiar and comfortable. As he settles in, he asks, “Alright, you have me here, what song?”

“It’s Mark’s house.” They lean back— really, lean, and Damien’s hand shoots up to their back to keep them from falling off the bench— to look over at their host. “What song?”

His face, cool and impassive at first, an unreadable expression, breaks into a sharp-looking smile. “Something rousing,” Mark replies, smoothly. “Show off a little for me. Have fun with it.”

A novelty, trotted out for the fun of it— his shoulders and jaw tense as the other party goers, in various stages of interest in the dare, jeer along. This is just like his father’s parties, and he was overjoyed to be rid of them years ago, even if they didn’t come to such an end under the best circumstances.

“Hey,” a soft voice says, and it’s them, eyes unfocused but in his direction and concerned. They smile, and reach up to pat at his chest. “You and me. Okay?”

Just five words— Damien would wager they’re too far gone to actually put their extensive vocabulary and wit to any use right now, but the meaning is there. If he pretends it’s just the two of them, at his home at the piano after a long day, then he’ll have his audience, his comfort.

“Okay.” He manages to return the smile, and— reluctantly pulling his hand from them— begins to play.

It’s a bit of a blur and a disaster, to be frank— the DA’s alcohol-boosted confidence comes with a side effect of them forgetting lyrics, and he fumbles over the keys, laughing at their muttered curses. Somewhere in the middle, other voices join in, either with his laughter or drunken vocals, but that doesn’t matter so much.

He doesn’t even pay attention to the cheers and jeers afterwards, eyes only on a giggling and breathless DA. As the others start to filter out under the pretense of some other dare, they finally catch their breath enough to say, “That was terrible.”

For their normal level, sure. “Oh, come now, my friend,” he teases, standing from the bench and reaching out a hand. “You sounded like an angel.”

With their flush and bright eyes, soft hands taking his offer and rising, they look like one, too.

Their eyes go wide, then, and he only gets a second to think  _ did I say that out loud _ before their arms are around his neck, another series of giggles in his ear.

“Moony,” they murmur, all fond teasing as he wraps his arms around their waist, tilts his head against theirs.

Damien grins, laughing. “Can you blame me?” He wants to spin, and so he does, lifts them in his arms and spins away from the piano and towards the center of the room. He’s drunk and dizzy, and  _ they’re  _ drunk and dizzy, but they don’t tell him to put them down as he slows to a stop, his bad leg twinging under the strain after only one full rotation. “Even the moon herself can’t compare to you, Songbird.”

Maybe it’s too much. They might be at a private event, but they’re high-ranking public officials in the same town, already the subject of rumor with their closeness without anything official. They’re friends, closer than anything, and even a welcomed change might grow sour. They’re a pair made up of pet names and compliments formed of sincerity and lined with playfulness, and jabs and inside jokes more fond than an insult has any right to be, the two sides deeply intertwined.

This is just sincerity, just pure love and adoration, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because he’s drunk, he doesn’t care because he’s sick of dialing back and downplaying, and he doesn’t care because they just feel so  _ good  _ and  _ right  _ in his arms: soft, warm, nuzzling in with a tight grip and a smile pressed into the collar of his dress shirt.

And then that smile moves, up and away, and presses in against the corner of his mouth.

It isn’t a full kiss, exactly. It feels like their aim is off, as if they’d intended either cheek or lips yet somehow missed both, landing clumsily in between as a drunken, impulsive action.

And yet, it doesn’t seem clumsy. It doesn’t seem impulsive, or drunken. Their touch is soft, gentle, lingering— deliberate. 

They pull back, so slowly, just enough to press their foreheads together. Their eyes are warm and close, and soft breath brushes over his cheek, and they tighten their grip around him as he sets them back on the ground and they  _ look  _ at him and say, “Damien...”

Is it any wonder at all that he kisses them?

Not heatedly, and not for very long, but a proper kiss. The kind that aches from sweetness, the kind where he tilts his head just so to feel more of their soft lips, the kind that draws a pleased little sound from deep in their chest. It’s chaste and dry and over far too soon, and he wants to do it again.

Damn anyone else still in the room, if anyone is at all. Damn the rumor mill and everyone who might disapprove with cries of corruption and scandal. Damn the idea that it might ruin what they have, because it  _ couldn’t _ , because though he loved them with his whole heart before, he loves them with his whole  _ being _ , now.

Damien leans in, but stops short, surprised when fingers press to his lips.

They smile at him, eyes sparkling, and move their arm back around his neck. “I think we should get back to the party,” they say, hardly more than a whisper. “They’ll be missing us.”

“To hell with the party.” He’s surprised by the intensity, even as he says the words. “We don’t have to— we could stay and talk. We should, because... because, I—“

“We will,” they interrupt. “We will, sweetheart, but right now... can’t we just enjoy the night? While we have it?”

Damien, head still reeling with the kiss, with the pet name,  _ chooses _ . They have their entire lives ahead of them, after all— what’s one night? “Yes. We can, my darling.”

They don’t get a chance to talk about it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this wasn’t going to be posted but popular demand babey  
> don’t judge me for my headcanons mmkay?

The foyer of the Ego Manor has an upright piano.

It’s very old, and as the lid has remained firmly shut since even the earliest of egos moved in, it looks more like some kind of ineffective cabinet than an instrument.

It’s always dusted and polished, though, gleaming black wood and burnished silver.

No one plays and no one mentions it, and the piano bench only moves if, for some reason, someone’s feeling particularly daring.

Dark doesn’t like for it to be disturbed.

Even after they gain a new Production Assistant.

He’s never yelled at them, as far as the egos know. They’re subject to soft words, little kindnesses that he denies having been part of, the smallest of cracks in his stoic stares.

Everyone knows he’s softer around them, and no one really pays it much mind— after all, they all have that same soft spot. They just bring it out in people.

And one day, a rare and rainy day, the PA arrives, scampering up the walk with their jacket raised over their head. When Google opens the door— he’s always relegated to this task and it’s demeaning, he isn’t _Bing_ — they rush in, spluttering.

“You’re dripping water,” he says, mildly displeased.

“Yeah, Google, I can see that,” they say, with a wry little laugh. With a sigh, they hang the jacket up beside the door, along a series of little hooks— most are bare. “It never rains here, so I don’t keep my umbrella at hand. I should’ve known.”

Odd. He usually understands them to be prepared. “I have r-radar capabilities, and forecasts,” he intones, shutting the door firmly to keep out the last bits of wind and moisture. “W-were you to allow me admin permissions—“

“No!” The PA shrinks back a bit, wincing. “Ah, no, Google, that’s fine. I’ll just be better prepared next time.”

They glance down at their shoes, and Google follows their gaze. Soaked and muddy, already marking the floor with streaks of brown. He twitches.

“I’ll just...” The PA looks around the foyer for a moment, then takes one, two, three _muddy_ steps for the piano bench. “Here, I’ll take them off and I promise I’ll clean up, okay? It’s the least I can do.”

Considering his disdain for household tasks, he supposes that’s only fair. “Please do. I h-have enough to do without a human... are you listening?”

They’ve already sat down, but their eyes are on the piano, itself, rather than their shoes. For all his knowledge of human expression— vast, with his database— it’s surprisingly difficult to parse: something similar to confusion, but also familiarity. Sadness.

It’s an odd expression that doesn’t match his knowledge of them. “Is s-something wrong?”

“You have a piano,” they say, voice just as distant as their eyes, looking at yet somehow _through_ the instrument. “I’ve been here so many times and I’ve never seen it.”

“It has been there since before my arrival,” Google explains. “T-though it is not played, which explains y-your confusion.”

The PA hums, one hand slowly coming up to the lid and lifting it. Underneath, the ivory keys gleam, and their fingers carefully brush over each one. “It’s nice, though. It should be played.”

With his advanced sensory input, Google can hear the static screeching whine of Dark’s aura before it even begins to shimmer into the foyer. “Ah,” he begins, not nervous because he’s a machine and can’t be, “Remove your shoes. You’re s-still dripping.”

“Alright!” They look back at him, bewildered. “Did you have an update recently? I’m going.”

They don’t pull at their shoes quickly enough, though they likely wouldn’t have been able to without superhuman speed; Dark finally arrives, half in the shadows of the stairs. He’s smiling, as much as he ever does— an absurdly genuine lift to the corner of his mouth— and Google has categorized that exact expression as a PA’s Presence Smile, simply for the rarity of it.

He doesn’t believe Dark is aware of it.

It vanishes in a split second, though, the moment his eyes reach the PA on the bench. In its place, even more rare than the smile and infinitely more unexpected: pure, cold shock, eyes wide and haunted.

The PA startles at the sound of his aura, jumping in place with a freed shoe in their hands. “Ah, Dark!” They frown, a minor rise in body temperature proving their embarrassment. “You can walk in here, you know. I’ve seen it.”

Dark doesn’t react for some time. Really, he simply stares, something strange and sad and unprecedented in his expression.

It’s long enough that The PA’s annoyance switches to awkward concern, and they set the shoe down. “Are... are you alright?”

Dark’s eyes flick to the piano, then back to the PA. “The piano is open,” he says, quietly.

“Oh. Yeah, I just—“ The PA turns a bit to gesture towards the keys. “I was just saying it looks really nice. Who plays?”

If Google wasn’t a supercomputer, he wouldn’t catch the brief, terrible pain that crosses Dark’s face, because he very quickly schools his features into something close to a sneer. “No one,” he growls, rolling his neck. “It’s decorative. Hurry and clean up that mud or it’ll dry.”

The PA frowns. “Yeah. Got it.”

“I was talking to Google.” The aura stops buzzing so loudly, just for a moment before he warps away, and he says, “You’re a guest.”

An irritated sigh comes from the bench, and with a final tug, both of the PA’s shoes are off. “I don’t understand him,” they mutter, standing to pick their way back to the door, avoiding muddy spots. “Why is he like that? I ask a simple question and he’s hot and cold.”

He has an answer, but he doesn’t believe either the PA or Dark might appreciate it. “He can b-be difficult to u-un-understand,” he replies, carefully, which is also truthful. “He’s secretive about much, for whatever reasons. The optimal r-reaction is to leave him be.”

“No argument there,” The PA huffs. They look at the floor, hands on their hips. “Really, you can go. I’ll mop, he doesn’t need to know.”

(Somehow, he still knows.

It doesn’t end in a busted actuator or missing charge cable, though, so Google counts his blessings.)

* * *

In the middle of the night, Dark stalks the halls.

It’s relaxing, in a way, to actually use his legs instead of warping from place to place. It reminds him of what it felt like to not be a Broken Thing, to have places to be and people to see with all the moments in between.

It’s strange, to miss inefficiency and interruptions.

Not that his current life doesn’t have its fair share of setbacks. The madhouse that is the manor is teeming with them.

Thankfully, it slows at night, when he prefers to do his walks, and he can get some thinking done while he can hear his own thoughts.

Unfortunately, one thought is irritatingly persistent, not to mention quietly terrifying.

The PA was at the piano.

His— _their_ piano, from a century ago. They looked exactly the same on the bench, eyes bright and fingers gentle as they fiddled with the keys.

They said the exact same words the exact same way, and it _hurt_.

Yes, he lashed out. Perhaps he shouldn’t have. Perhaps it was justified. Whatever the reason, for a moment, the _DA_ was back, and he—

He couldn’t handle it. Why?

He doesn’t feel things, not the way Damien did. Everything is muted, trapped under an icy layer of vengeance and anger and distance; he doesn’t feel guilt, as such, nor much empathy, not for people so close to that _snake_.

He can pretend, of course, but it’s not the same. Even if it works out the same, in the end.

With them, though, there’s... something. Something not as angry and focused on revenge, not cool and calculated indifference. Perhaps it’s what’s left of Damien, of Celine— Damien’s affection, Celine’s passion— that makes him actually feel...

Not— not normal, again. But something closer than he’s been since that poker game. Close to happiness, close to affection, close to humor.

He feels like he cares beyond a pawn in his game with Mark. They’re a key to his victory, yes, but one he wants to keep, even after the game has been won.

He doesn’t know what to call it. It isn’t love, really— to call it such would be an insult to the depth of his previous self’s affections— but... something. A strange fondness, perhaps.

As his reverie draws to a conclusion, if not a very satisfying one, he finds himself before the piano. The lid is still up, keys glinting in the moonlight through the window, but it’s unharmed— as though the PA would ever be a quarter as destructive as anyone else in this damned mansion.

His fingers itch with the urge to play, and he takes a step back from the piano, frown deepening. He doesn’t like to play, hasn’t in a century, and his audience... isn’t here.

“Oh, Jesus fucking— Dark!”

He looks back over his shoulder at the racket. The presence he feels, alone, would identify them in a heartbeat— sun, fresh air, flowers, so it’s the PA— but old habits.

They’re dressed for sleep, one hand over their chest, a scowl forming on their face. “You scared the shit out of me,” they continue, quiet but harsh. “Why do you slink around like some kind of creep, huh?”

“A creep.” He almost laughs. “Rich, considering the company you keep. Is that why you’re here, instead? Have you grown tired of him?”

They huff, coming the rest of the way down. “It was late when I finished work— on _your_ video, might I add. I was too tired to drive back, Host offered me a room. He’s... persuasive.”

Persuasive is a word. So is meddling. So is predatory. He can’t stop a sneer, though he turns away to hide it. “Well, I’m sure it’s all you’d hoped for, though nothing could measure up to that _vehicle_ you sleep in. Why aren’t you there?”

“Sometimes I want a real bed,” they reply, bluntly. “The flat thing in there is more storage compartment than mattress. And sometimes I don’t want to sneak in around a recording schedule to use a bathroom or get food. Real food. Here? I can do anything.”

“Then why don’t you stay?”

The question is out before he realizes, hanging in the thick, heavy air. He hadn’t meant to say it— though he’d been thinking it from the start— and the silence it spurs is equally heavy.

“I—“ They cut themselves off, confused. “What do you mean? Stay?”

He turns, deliberately slow, to meet their eyes. “Stay here. Don’t go back to him.”

Immediately, they shake their head. “No, I can’t do that to him. He’s been good to me, he’s a friend.”

“A _friend_? Just how much has he dug his claws into you?” Dark paces towards them, aura beginning to bubble just under the surface. “I’m no _expert_ , my dear, but a _friend_ doesn’t keep you on a feeding schedule. A _friend_ doesn’t make you stay in a van when he has plenty of room— or money to pay you so you can find your _own_ room. A _friend_ doesn’t withhold those keys from you if your leaving doesn’t suit his mood.

“I know what you are to him, and it isn’t a friend. It’s a _pet_ ,” he growls. “A snake with a cage, keeping a precious little songbird inside for a snack.”

Something in their face changes at that. Not hurt or indignation— those are already there, in great supply— but something thoughtful. Something familiar. “Songbird?” They mutter.

_They can sing?_

_Like a songbird._

He grits his teeth at the memory. “What?”

“I... I feel like that’s familiar. Like someone called me that before.” More confused then before, they dare to take a step closer. “Why is you saying that familiar?”

He sniffs, attempting to quell a rising, strange sense of concern, of hope. They can’t remember anything. “If I’d said anything, it would have worked as well,” he dismisses. “A little mouse, perhaps. A hamster. Take your pick— it’s all the same.”

It doesn’t alleviate their distress, palpable in the air as they swing their arms out. “It isn’t,” they insist. “It isn’t, because songbird was _something_. And the room was something, because it was exactly— and the piano! I looked at it today, for the first time, but I _knew_ it.

“Something’s happening today,” they continue, softer. “It’s like... it’s right there, I can almost reach it but I just can’t. Did you do this to me? You were acting weird—“

“I’ve done nothing to you,” he cuts them off, low and dangerous. “I know what he has to say about me. I know he’s turned you against me, convinced you that I aim to hurt you, but he’s the biggest liar of them all.”

Their brow furrows further, edging frustrated. “Is he? He’s been rather spot on with you.”

“Free reign of my home. Any comfort you desire. No need for permission. I don’t put you in a bigger, prettier cage and _call_ you free— I _set_ you free.” He composes himself, stands tall and collected. “It isn’t my fault you can’t see the coils around you, but the piano... I could help you with. Possibly.”

Quickly, their shoulders tense, expression going wary. “You’re going to help? You?”

“I’ve been known to help, on occasion.” He steps to the side, sweeping one arm back towards the piano. “And I do hate to see you suffer, my dear. Allow me to help.”

The wary distrust doesn’t fade, but the light of curiosity starts to join in. “What do you want?” they ask, quietly. “You wouldn’t do it for nothing. What’s your price?”

Dark finally smiles at that. No one ever said they weren’t smart, even without their memories. “I do appreciate your savvy,” he says, “as I would normally ask. You have so much that I’d be willing to take in exchange.

“However.” He moves to the piano, pulling out the bench to take a seat. “I’m feeling rather generous tonight. All I ask is that you indulge me— be my audience for a song.”

The PA’s eyes widen in disbelief, and they look between himself and the piano. “ _You_? You, Dark, play the piano?”

It’s nearly the same— without the giddiness, the almost-teasing. It doesn’t feel right.

“Yes. I have— had,” he corrects, lifting the lid, “hobbies. Piano was one of many. Join me, come on— here at the bench.”

They don’t need further convincing, to his mild surprise. In the few seconds it takes him to assume the proper position, they cross over to stand next to him— a little brush of warmth at his side, radiating through the foot between them. “This, I need to hear,” they say. “You don’t... you don’t want me to sit, do you?”

The keys under his fingers alight blue, _yes, yes, please,_ ringing in his ears; with some effort, he pushes it down. “Only if you’d like to,” he replies, smoothly. “I wouldn’t dream of making you uncomfortable with my requests.”

The PA hums, a quiet, considering little sound. “Let it be on my head,” they mutter, and then that warmth grows closer. With a quiet shuffle of fabric, they perch on the edge of the bench, as little weight settled down as possible. “So I can make sure it’s you doing it,” they explain, when his eyes cut their way. “It might be a player, and I’d like to know if it’s going to waste my time.”

“If you say so.” As if he’d ever let a _player piano_ into his home. He may dislike the performance, but he’s able to play for himself, damn it. “Listen close.”

He starts to play a song. A familiar song, an old song, that wouldn’t be quite so popular, these days— it’s a song during a long, wild night, a request from the once-dearest of friends, his own skilled notes with the sweet, bright tones of his most beloved. If there’s anything still knocking around in their mind, if their reincarnation is still, ultimately, them and not some cheap copy—

They’re humming.

Not perfectly, as they cut out every now and then, and it isn’t singing, but...

It’s indistinguishable. It’s their voice.

During a less lyrical portion, he softly asks, “Do you know this song?”

“It sounds like I do.” Their voice is distant, thoughtful, and his brief glance proves that; they’re looking at and through the piano, brow furrowed in concentration. “Like I heard it a long time ago. Is it very old?”

He hums. “Over a century. It was popular then, but now... things fade, over time. Are forgotten. Are replaced. Isn’t it sad?”

“Yeah.” They shift, and he just feels something warm against his knee. “It— I feel like... this feels...”

Dark doesn’t speak, just plays and waits for them to gather their thoughts.

“Songs can go with memories. This song feels so important— like something happened during it, once. I should remember that, this thing that happened, but all I know is this, and not even well. It’s... frustrating,” they finish, with a sigh.

“I can imagine.” It’s frustrating for him, as well— his songbird so close to him, but so far away. “If it means anything to you, I hope you remember. May I ask— what does it feel like to you? Beyond important.”

For a few long seconds— until the end of the song— they remain silent. After the last notes start to trail away into the night air, they say, “It’s hard to explain. Good, mostly. Exciting, deliriously happy.” As he watches, one hand comes up to their chest. “Like being loved. So much that it hurts. Is that... is that right?”

Dark swallows, surprisingly thick and difficult. “Yes,” he admits, quietly. “As far as I remember, yes.”

They turn to face him, eyes searching. “Do you know who sang this?”

“I know someone who did. And someone who played for them as they sang.”

“What happened to them?” Their voice is little more than a whisper.

He bows his head. “Nothing good. They deserved better. A chance. But they didn’t have one.”

They go back to silence, and he joins them. What else is there to say, really? Mark took any chance they might have had and smashed it with one motion of his hand.

“If... if you played something else,” they begin, cautiously, “perhaps... I don’t know. Perhaps it will make more sense, that way.”

They surprise him more each day. “The cost remains the same,” he warns, though near-teasingly. “Be my audience?”

“Yeah.” And they smile, and it makes him feel lighter than he has in years, decades, nearly a century. “Woah, hey— I didn’t know you could do that!”

“Do what?”

“Change. Just, like, how you look. Maybe it’s your weird light, but...” They shake their head. “You look really different. Really... familiar.”

Dark looks down at his hands, only to find them shimmering cyan instead of gray static. If he looked in a mirror— he hates mirrors— would he see real, live Damien’s face looking back?

He feels like Damien, for once. Like he isn’t broken.

“I didn’t, either,” he admits. “But, let that not disrupt us. Shall we, my darling?”

A strange look passes over their face, half longing and half bemused, but it fades as quickly as it appeared. “We shall. What’s next?”

He plays until his fingers grow stiff, until the PA’s voice grows hoarse and fades. They don’t seem any closer to a breakthrough, but— for a night— they were together again.

And that... gives him a lot of hope, at long last.

(The noise was sure to have bothered the other residents, but they’re all suspiciously quiet about it come morning.)

**Author's Note:**

> i love mayor attorney so much :)  
> find me @fgfluidity on tumblr


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